


post-modern theory

by aphrodite_mine



Category: The Hills Have Eyes (2006 2007)
Genre: Multi, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-23
Updated: 2007-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-25 05:59:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1635275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aphrodite_mine/pseuds/aphrodite_mine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aftermath, and trying to be normal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	post-modern theory

**Author's Note:**

> Written for pesha

 

 

After her shift ends, Brenda goes to the back room and changes shoes. They like her to wear something with a heel for the customers at Mrs. Allen's Diner, but its hell on her feet. She tugs her stockings from beneath her dress and changes to socks and sneakers, avoiding her reflection in the mirror. She'll walk two blocks and then catch the bus across town, sitting by herself, halfway between the front and the back, close enough to see what gas station the driver got his coffee from. The grease won't wash out, it doesn't anymore. Her pores are clogged. Her hair, at least, stays clean. It's always been bouncy and waved without any effort. She lets it down during the bus ride but doesn't shake it free. She doesn't want anyone to notice her.

Fifteen minutes later, she gets off at the corner, ready to walk another three blocks where she turns to their apartment. Its fourteen steps from the street corner to the apartment steps, seven to the landing, six up from there to the second floor. Twenty-two steps to their door when Brenda takes her key from the chain around her neck and slips it into the lock, jiggles it twice, and twists it, pushing the door in with a creak. "Bobby?" she calls out, examining the entryway, dropping her heels and slipping off her sneakers.

"I'm in the kitchen," Bobby calls, accompanied a moment later by Catherine's squeaky giggle. His head appears around the corner and he waves, hoping anew that his smile will penetrate the dull sheen in Brenda's eyes. "Good day at work?" He sits back down, knowing that two seconds with his eyes off of Catherine will mean a floor full of mashed food and unscrewed bottles.

"It was fine," Brenda replies, flipping through the mail. It's mostly junk, as usual. Only one thing actually addressed to them, a letter to Bobby, inviting him to join the Army. It's already been opened, Brenda wonders if Bobby is considering it. To get out of here, to get away from this gloom. Brenda thought the job would help her, having a routine and all of that. But it's worse; having their eyes on her. It's like they can all see what happened; see straight through her skin and into her damaged insides. She might as well wear it on a name tag.

"Just fine?" Bobby asks, brushing a curl back from Catherine's forehead. She's in danger of smearing pears all over her face, but Bobby deals with this three times a day. "Nothing fun or exciting happen at all?" He doesn't exactly expect a response at this point. It's been weeks since they got here, bloodied and broken. The police didn't believe the story, surprise, surprise, but surface wounds were healed and an apartment was rented. Doug got a job as a salesman for Verizon Wireless, despite his missing fingers; they didn't discriminate based on disabilities, apparently, and Brenda at the diner. Bobby had no eagerness to re-enter the school system, and Doug didn't have the energy to fight him over it.

"No, Bobby," Brenda scowls, stepping into the small kitchen and yanking a chair out from the table, scraping it along the floor causing the baby to jump and howl. "Nothing fun or exciting happened. Nothing at all. I'm sorry my life isn't thrilling enough to compensate for yours." She frowns, leaning her face onto her folded arms, showing nothing on her face other than her frustration with life in general.

"You know that's not what I meant," Bobby says, sighing. He offers Catherine a fresh spoonful of pears from her bowl and squeezes Brenda's hand, hoping he doesn't have anything sticky on his own. "I'm just worried about you is all."

Brenda sighs, turning her face away, into the sunset coming through the ratty curtains, seeing the Camero pulling up the drive. "Doug's home," she mumbles, ignoring Bobby's comments. The baby perks up, recognizing Doug's name as equating to "Daddy," even from the mournful lips of her aunt. Catherine mashes her gums into the chewy spoon, sucking on her pears and smiling. She kicks her feet hard against the bottom of the highchair, clunking in the silence. 

"Let's get you cleaned up, little girl." Bobby stands up, releasing Brenda's hand. He's not sure, for a moment, who he's speaking to, Catherine or his sister. But he lifts Catherine's bowl from the tray and dumps it into the sink, retrieving a washcloth to make short work of her sticky face and hands. Bobby takes Catherine from the chair and holds her to his side. He holds her hand and makes her wave in Brenda's direction. "Hi, Brenda," he says, affectedly, and Catherine giggles. Brenda shifts a little, but doesn't turn from the window.

Doug doesn't talk much these days. Brenda supposes he gets all his words out at work, much like she does, asking if the tubby gentleman on the right would like to try to special of the day. Doug must spend his time asking for extended plans or extra text messages, wearing out his chapped lips so that when he enters the apartment door, all he does is grunt hello, stroke Catherine's cheek and make something in the kitchen. Usually a cardboard pizza or a bowl of soup, something he can swallow down while it's still burning, something that will make him feel, stimulate nerve endings that have been dead for weeks.

He looks at Brenda and sees his wife, and looks at Bobby and sees himself. Bobby standing there, holding his daughter, and Doug doesn't belong. They've already got a family; his family. He can't see the sun anymore, unless it's setting.

Catherine tugs on Bobby's hair, growing long because he refuses to maintain it, hardly washes it these days. She reaches out for her father, picking up slices of pizza with the stumps on his hand and chewing without care for manners. Brenda watches him with empty eyes, not hungry, never hungry. 

 


End file.
